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What are you waiting for?
Ever been henpecked into submission?
If not-
I'd love to introduce you to my mother
so she can leave me alone for once.
I love my parents. I really do
but when you TELL THEM SOMETHING
REPEATEDLY
IN NO UNCERTAIN TERMS
they... disregard what you said, and often lead you straight into aggrivating hijinks...
Like that time I spent $2,400.00 on fixing the car that they exploded by taking it to a disreputable mechanic to replace my battery which exploded within 24 hours of the procedure and
FRIED
my car's electrical system.
Yes
These
are my parents.
They mean well
they really do
but ... they have a complete inability to do two things
1. Listen/comprehend.
2. Plan.
When I say something like "I'm too self aware to be swayed by some self-help shaman, and seeing a therapist is going to be a massive waste of my time and your money, I'm not willing to be in therapy, I don't think it will help, and they're not going to tell me anything I don't already know"
It translates in their head as something like
"gosh- we need to get our son into therapy and possibly heavilly medicated".
I'll translate that thought to what I grock
"Gosh- we don't know anything about what our son is going through, we don't know anything about psycho-therapy or behavioural therapy, and when he says things like 'self-aware' does he think he's some kind of super computer? I heard depression is like diabetes (from a drug rep) and that if you don't take ur meds ull totally dies, lets construct an ellaborate, farcical plan to subvert him into agreeing to it, or just badger and nag him until he submits to our superior will!"
...
...
...
Yeah. I'm in a possitive and loving place right now.
So this afternoon my dad says "oh and call that Fanz guy"
...
Let me back up a week.
My dad, after discussing it with me, at great length how I felt, what I was going through, and after a prolonged
rational conversation
I clearly stated "I don't think I'm willing to participate in therapy right now, I think I know too much, I'm too convinced of the rationality of my thought process, its too cognitive, it has nothing to do with emotion".
and he nodded, and said "I think you need to talk to somebody".
...
*facepalm*
Like I was fucking speaking latin.
So... he goes around what I've said
what I want
what I think
what I know
and talks to a therapist he knows, gets a recommendation
and comes back like... 6 days later and tells me he has these grand schemey machinations going on- and that he's going to get me into counseling.
Wow
I loved being forced into therapy the last 9 times.
Maybe I'll love it this time too.
I loved that we couldn't talk about this like adults, and that I could not be included in the decision making process.
Love it~ /heart.
So... I gave my patented wilting glare, expressed my disatisfaction with the situation, and we're back to present
"go call that Franz guy".
...
I'm thinking 'no. I don't fucking want any part in this'. But I just cock a grimmace and go back to eating my lunch.
Two hours later, my mother is ... asking for the last 4 digits of my social security number
and in minutes I find out why
now all of my bills and mail are being superfluously rerouted, dipshitted around, and refiled and re-addressed without my consent.
I
feel
wonderful
about this... a completely unnecessary beauracratic hurdle to overcome when I relocate and either transfer services or cancel them!
Hurray!
Someone made extra work and phone queues for me!!!
Yaaaaaaaaaaaay.
And after this delightful task is completed, I have a phone handed to me
My mother- "here- talk to him"
...
"hello?"
"Hello is this (name removed for your protection)?"
"yes, who am I speaking to?"
"(The nut house) and we heard you were interested in setting up an evaluation?"
"I am not. I am actually being harassed into this by my parents, I'm doing all of this under duress and the very real threat of being homeless for not cooperating"
"oh... I see, and what's your social security number?"
...
You can guess how much the perky little customer service drone cared about my current headache.
But "that Franz Guy" can see me Friday at 2:00- but I need to be there by 1:30 to fill out paper work and provide proof of my income, lack of proof of insurance, and some faery wizard proof of residency...
I can tell you I live on the fucking moon.
Prove that I don't.
There's a reason a lot of agencies now just work under the assumption that you live where you say you live... it kinda cuts down on the paperwork and bullshit.
And I said "there's really no way to prove that I live where I tell you since there's no writs of ownership or lease agreement" so they told me to bring a signed note from someone...
...
how in the fuck are you going to know that I didn't just write that note with my offhand.
I live on the fucking moon.
Alright?
And don't tell me the appointment is at 2:00
it's at 1:30
if I HAVE TO BE THERE
at ONE THIRTY
say O N E THIRTY
...
...
...................
Deep soothing breath... rub your temples, don't fantasize about drowning strangers...
This is the attitude I'm going into this with.
Resentful.
Worked around.
Contrary.
Irritated, and already smarter than your staff.
I honestly wish "Franz guy" luck.
Because I think of the first three sentences out of my mouth one of them will be
"You seem like a nice person, but you cannot help me".
I don't think anyone can.
That's not to say that the problem is insurmountable
its to say that
no one can help me.
I just need an opportunity to fix all of this- and, with what I have, what opportunities are before me, and within my reach
...
I don't see that happening any time soon.
Would YOU hire a college graduate with a blip on his background check if you could hire a highschool graduate without one for the same (or lesser) wage?
Precisely.
Would you date a cranky, issolated, scarred up, achey old man who gets physically ill when he leaves the house?
I didn't think so either.
Even if he was a sex god?
....
You can't see me chuckling over all this... but I am.
I'm suddenly thinking of Craig Ferguson.
Who... for some reason is becoming a hero of mine.
Must be that whole... alchoholic thing, and still having a job that he seems to enjoy.
Hey, the Shat used to live in a tin box in the desert.
He turned out alright.
